


Sweet Despite the Scars

by wrothmothking



Series: Reader-Inserts [3]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Bodyguard Reader, NON-GENDERED READER, Other, Reader-Insert, That's Not How The Force Works, force sensitive reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23682292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrothmothking/pseuds/wrothmothking
Summary: You find yourself invested in the continued survival of Jango Fett.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Reader, Jango Fett/Reader
Series: Reader-Inserts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1280180
Comments: 1
Kudos: 68





	Sweet Despite the Scars

You mark him as a Mandalorian from across the room, the distinctive body armor sparking tension in your jaw. Only once have you lost a client, and it was to one of his people. Putting on a bounty hunter costume and collecting his own contract had bought back most of your reputation, but the burn scar bisecting your face reminds you daily the depths of their skill—the legend of it had declined with their number, this Jango Fett the second you've met in over a decade of protecting high-profile targets from bounty hunters. But in theory, you're on the same team.

You resolve to watch him anyway, and not just because of old traumas that refuse to stay behind you—the Rodian was kind, gentle, fighting corruption with empathy and the steel of someone knowing they've nothing to lose but their own pitiable life, and he'd not deserved that death, cut open from navel to sternum in front of you.

There's a boy next to him. A child.

Maybe it's because you've spent much of your career watching over children, guarding them from mercenaries, gangsters, and the tribulations of youth as you clothed and fed and entertained them while their parents changed the galaxy. Maybe it's because your mother was right about something in her life and your biological clock's finally demanding offspring. Whatever it is, when you lay eyes on him, a foreign fondness warms your chest, demanding his protection.

Not that he seems to need it.

The boy keeps to Jango's shadow, not out of shyness, but out of a desire for closeness. He observes the deliberations with detatched contentment, attention reserved for the man beside him. There's the love you expect any child to have for their caregiver, and the adoration and trust that soothes your hero complex. You've learned to look closely for signs of abuse in your charges; never know when someone's parent or partner need _disappear_.

Instead, it seems this Jango needs to stay.

This Jango, who's staring back at you. Oh, the helmet hides line of sight, and the Banking Clan representative you're standing at the shoulder of _is_ speaking, but you're familiar enough with being prey to recognize a hunter's interest.

However he feels about your attention, it's not reflected in his body language. You hope he doesn't assume you're a threat.

So, you offer a kind smile in the kid's general direction, then redirect your gaze to stare neutrally at the tabletop, pretending you don't notice Count Dooku's sneering at how the expression pulls at your scar tissue to maintain a relaxed posture.

The meeting adjourns with little fanfare. Your employer rises to his feet, gesturing for you to follow as he retires to his chambers. The retinue hired by his corporation takes over from there; he doesn't trust them, but there's a limit to the access he can demand for an outsider. And a limit to what the trio of security officers can do with your hidden cameras in place and your loitering right by the door. When you'd been briefed on the situation, you had indulged in a private, spirited monologue over the insinuation you were some common mercenary intending to steal company secrets.

You blush at the memory. It isn't like you to be so melodramatic—or so you like to think.

Across the hall is another door. For the last six days, it's opened for no one. That it does today for the planet's new arrivals may be a stroke of fate, or the first step in a conspiracy yet unknown to you. It's the stories you grew up with about the will of the living Force versus learned paranoia.

The child turns away from the door.

“You're not another jedi, are you?”

“Boba-”

“'Another'?” you interrupt with a tilt of your head.

“He tried to take my dad. He died for it.”

“Good,” you surprise them by saying. Despite the Republic's decline, jedi sentiment has maintained a certain height. So far.

Aggression leaves the boy's stance, though he remains suitably wary, and Jango's hand unclenches from his shoulder, the approval dissolving his trepidation.

“Jedi are difficult to dissuade. I'd hate for them to make trouble here.”

Boba nods, then finally allows his father to turn him towards their rooms. You have a feeling his stepping out of line is a rare thing, forced by a protective instinct that warms your heart. They're strangers to you; they ought to remain strangers. Your presumptuous caring should be attended from a distance, soon abandoned as the three of you go your separate ways.

And yet, you find yourself asking, “Why did you think I was a jedi?”

“You have an R4. I saw him doing maintenance on your ship,” Boba explains. You follow his eyes to the orange hexagon emblazoned on your armor's chestplate, a twin of the symbol etched into your ship.

“Company logo.”

You're in actuality a private contractor, but you've found that the assumption of fellow employees and higher-ups does well to assuage many of your clients' fears when hiring a bodyguard. Makes you into something bigger than a single, infallible being with vices and other vulnerabilities.

“Why do you have an R4?”

“He's an old friend. Why did your jedi have one?”

“Navigation. He does—didn't need an astromech in space combat.”

You smile. “Neither do I. Nor you, I suspect.”

“Yes, he's taken to it rather well,” Jango steps in, nothing but parental pride in his voice. “Earlier today he saved my life with his skill.”

Boba beams, shyly. Like he knows both the truth of what Jango says, and the danger of allowing overconfidence. It's a delicate balance. He seems unaware of the edge to the compliment, the implied threat; Boba is not the soft target most his age are—arguably, all his age _should be_. Alas, the galaxy rarely cares for should.

So, you don't say, “You're lucky to have him,” or, “You're lucky to have each other,” the responses that first come to you, because while the words are harmless and bland enough on their own, now that Jango's warned you off, what it would seem to mean is: “I'm taking your son.” Or killing him.

Instead, you offer, “You did well, protecting your family.”

It's an inane statement to make, but Boba turns that brilliant smile your way nevertheless.

Then the Fetts depart, and you return to your job.

* * *

As you're not part of the local security forces, you're uninvolved in the capture of Kenobi, who you assume to be the partner to Jango's jedi, if not the man himself. You hear about it the morning after, standing a half-step back from your employer as he and his colleagues are updated on the evolving situation over breakfast. Dooku's lies spill easily from his mouth. There's no tell that gives the game away, you simply know, as you always do when someone tries to hide the truth from you, as you always know when to check the cameras and as you always know the exact point when your ship's repair can be delayed no longer.

Here, it's clear to you the operations on Geonosis have been compromised.

So, Skywalker and Anidala do not surprise you, and neither do the jedi in the stands.

“Sir, I believe it's time you return home,” you say into your comm unit, having already killed the video feed to spare your client first-person bloodshed.

Energy weapons cauterize. That's why you don't use them.

Slugs speed towards a twi'lek jedi. She deflects—tries to, but instead of bouncing off the melted embers wind up in her face, blinding her, burning her, making her _wail_. Discipline makes her retain her grip on her lightsaber even as the next volley makes contact—better her face and hands than embedded in her gut, her chest.

“Right, yes.” He sounds nauseated. It best not effect your tip. “Thank you for, uh, warning me out of the coliseum. I regret not warning the others now.”

He means the official detail assigned to him, likely gambling in his quarters at this very moment, but it's a concern you don't care to entertain. You pretend to think otherwise. “Dooku knew.”

The woman you fight snarls, whether at the name or your inattention you don't know.

A bitter chuckle. “I'm sure he did. Good luck.”

The line cuts. You reload your pistol. The twi'lek charges, the distractions of pain and a rage she'd forever deny making her last mistake for her. The next round buries itself in her skull. Another corpse for the funeral pyre.

You survey the rows of seats. R4 idles close, nearly underfoot, his nervous chirps an oddly comforting background noise.

A rose pink togruta stumbles out of a throng of Geonosians, then somersaults over the railing into the pit below. The majority of jedi look to have retreated there.

“Activate your cloak and keep watch,” you tell your droid, holstering your pistol in favor of the rifle on your back—another slugthrower.

You lazily snipe any jedi your scope trails over, but move on before you can see the result. You're not sticking around out of loyalty to the cause or some misguided attempt to win Dooku's favor.

Finally, you find him, presently engaged in a three-side duel with a black human man and one of the would-be executioners.

You bite your lip as the creature tramples Jango, frantically thrusting his horn in every direction to ward off the surrounding armies. Pity sits like a stone in your gut as you pull the trigger.

The slug finds its target, tearing a hole through first the eye, then the brain. Blood splatter rains down onto the sand, a mirror to the mess you'd painted around yourself. The beast collapses, dead.

Jango rises. His jedi doesn't see; he's looking around, for you, because none of the drones would think to help Jango, and none of his comrades would interfere in a battle he was winning. He meets your gaze through your scope, his neutral expression cracking into a frown. Suddenly, you feel him there like he's right next to you, and you also don't: it's as if he's ensnared all your senses, then cut them off from you completely, leaving you to flounder in the dark with only the vague impression of his body heat looming over you to keep you grounded in reality. You don't shoot. You _can't_ shoot.

The jedi turns on his heel to deflect Jango's attack, and the galaxy floods back into you. A spark of realization: you'd tried to see into him in that way you do all people, automatic, unconscious, an invasion without intent stumbling through the shallows of others' psyches, but he'd blocked you, somehow, and came barrelling over to peer inside _you_ instead.

“Neat trick,” you mutter. The counter may not've been successful—you _hope_. But you must give points for the terror the jedi'd instilled.

:Boss-boss! Knight sneaking up on your left.:

Not a moment too soon.

“Thanks,” you murmur, voice kept low to present the illusion of ignorance.

You can hear them now: muffled footsteps, elevated breathing rate, the creak of their lightsaber's leather handle as their fist grows ever tighter around it. You think you hear their heartbeat, ridiculous a notion as it seems. Closer, they shuffle, their excitement polluting the air, until they're too close for your rifle. Unbeknownst to them, it has a secret, hidden in a holster on the far side of the its barrel.

The saber ignites. You twist to the side, vibroblade stabbing where their neck used to be. Damn. A turn of the zabrak's wrist and the stab becomes a slash through your midsection. Luckily, an attack you were prepared for.

There's no time for a proper dodge, so you fall, flopping onto a chair and kicking them in the knee. They don't crumble.

Shrieking, R4 spews flame, catching those ridiculous robes alight. Panicking, you shove him back, nearly losing your feet again as a surge of lightheadedness overtakes you. The fire's out by the time you're steady. You can't remember if they screamed.

You drop your rifle. Toss your knife between your hands, smirking. The taunt draws Zabrak's attention away from the invisible friend hiding behind you.

They come at you. High swing, you drop low. Low swing, you roll back, on your feet with pistol drawn before they can close the distance you created. Frustration bleeds into their form—you were supposed to be an easy kill. Your smile broadens. A lifetime of training can only afford so much advantage, and they've spent it on the second move.

One, two, three. One, two, three. Eyes widen as they realize the forming pattern, but it's then that you abandon it.

One...

_Four, five._ Zabrak gapes as his blood spills from the arteries in his leg and neck.

“Sorry, hon,” you whisper. You half-mean it.

The lightsaber clutters, and they follow. First to their knees, then sprawled on their belly. Your boots are red now, just as parts of your rifle have become.

Jango's fight is still ongoing. A sigh of relief passes through your lips. Assured, you lower the gun, looking to R4.

Before you can express the gratitude you mean or the anger you don't, you have a waking nightmare. Boba, squatting among the dead, his forehead pressed to his father's helmet.

The angle's all wrong. Instinct demands you shoot anyway.

A slug whizzes by the jedi's ear, and he jerks. Jango loses a hand.

_Jango loses a hand._

Oh dear. Not the outcome you intended.

You don't waste precious seconds aiming, sending a trio into the jedi's back. He'll live, but he won't be able to chase the fleeing Jango. With the mission complete, you finally allow yourself to relax.

R4 picks up on the change. :Did you do it? Boss-boss, did you save him?:

“Yeah, guess I did.”

The adrenaline high departs, leaving you hollow. R4 celebrates for you, uncloaking to do his little dance, rocking side to side and singing a victory tune, all as he always does. It fails to distract from how the aftermath makes you feel like crying, but you laugh anyway. As you always do. You wonder if all sensitives feel loss as keenly as you do, each life taken an empty space in the Force's harmony. One that can never be refilled. Perhaps it's an explanation for the count's insanity and the jedi's apathy. Perhaps it's an imagined burden manifesting from guilt. It matters not.

Another league of battle droids enters the field. You leave Dooku to his posturing, uncaring how it ends.

* * *

The hangar is deserted. Two human padawans, thankfully adults, lie dead beside a miraluka knight missing his head. Kneeling, you extract a poison dart from one's neck.

:Friend?:

“Unclear. Now that the cavalry's here, everyone with sense will retreat.”

:Cavalry?:

Standing once more, you crane your neck back to stare through the roof to the war above, no longer constrained to the colliseum. “You don't hear that?” _Feel that._ The maelstrom makes your teeth ache.

:Cavalry.:

“We're running out of time to get out of here.”

Halfway to your ship, you stop.

:Boss-boss?:

Jango's ship is still here. Why is his ship still here? Did he kill the jedi, or did they arrive after he passed to be downed by someone else, someone who then crept aboard his ship to off the Fetts? Leaving the battle could be construed as betrayal.

:Boss-boss, I don't want to die on a bug world.:

“We're not going to die,” you say, barely aware of doing so.

The ramp is lowered. You stride on in, R4 following hesitantly.

It's Boba you see first, sat on his haunches, tears streaming down his face. Jango is sprawled on his back before him, unconscious, missing a hand and with a new hole in his abdomen.

“Well, that answers some questions.”

Boba jumps to his feet, blaster clenched in shaking hands as he aims it at you, his eyes wide, his face pale. There's no recognition. All that he sees in his panic is _threat_.

“Boba,” you begin, voice soft and sugar sweet, “can you tell me where you are?”

“M-my dad's ship. Geonos-s-sis.”

“Very good. How about what you see?”

This question, he doesn't respond to. He's looking through you, his breath picking up as he descends into a full-blown panic attack.

“Boba? Boba, you are safe, okay? You are safe. Focus on me.” You crouch low to appear smaller, less threatening, and shuffle close. “Slow down-”

You've moved too close too fast. Some instinct comes online, and Boba squeezes the trigger.

:Boss-boss!:

Pain unfolds like a flower in bloom. You choke on a shout, sparing half a thought to take stock of the injury: the bolt had infiltrated the seam between shoulder and chestplates, ripping a tunnel through skin, muscle, and bone. Suddenly, you regret his training.

“It's okay. You didn't hurt me.” _Lie_. It's arrogance to assume he'll care; you continue with the assurances anyway. “I'm fine. Just like your dad is fine. Just like you, Boba, are fine.

You're doing so well. You can come back.”

There's just the gun between you now.

“Breathe with me. C'mon, you got this.”

He does have this. The breathing slows. The gun clatters on the floor.

“You?”

“Me,” you answer, pouring as much genuine kindness as you can into your smile and voice.

“What are you doing here?”

“Helping, if you'll allow me.”

“A-alright.”

The agreement comes too quick. You wait a beat, ask, “Is it?”

“...Dad might be mad, but I think we need it,” Boba admits, ducking his head.

:I thought we couldn't stay, Boss-boss?:

“We're not.”

“You're not? You can't-”

“I'm staying, hon. I was answering R4.”

“O-oh,” Boba sighs. “I didn't see it.”

He's shaken by the admission. Young and untested, he must've never seen his father hurt until now. Not like this.

A loved one in danger is something that's shaken hardened soldiers to their cores. You wish he could've been exactly that before bearing this burden.

“R4's a 'he'. You pilot, right?”

“Yeah, Dad even let me set us down.”

That spark of pride gives you hope. Course decided, you sit beside Jango, resting your hand on his neck to measure the strength of his pulse. It's fast.

“Then get us out of here.”

:We're leaving our ship?:

“Where to?”

“Uh, head towards Utapau.”

:My favorite,: R4 beeps, his anxiety infecting Boba.

“What are you going to want for helping us?” the boy asks, cold. “You won't get your ship...”

You let the silence pull your gaze up.

“I shot you.”

“Yeah, I remember, and it'll keep 'til I get your old man on the mend. So, please, get us out of here.”

Finally, he leaves, allowing you to focus on your patient.

“R4?”

:Clammy, ashy skin. Rapid breathing and pulse. Drag marks on the ramp suggest he fainted outside.:

“He's in shock? The wounds are cauterized.”

:Neurologic shock. We witnessed multiple spinal traumas outside, and it's plausible the stabbing he endured was not straight.:

Tough news; you were banking on the saber having failed to make it through.

“That would mean Boba killed the third jedi.” But even as you doubt, your hands work quickly to remove the armor.

:Unfortunate CPR isn't necessary. Yet.:

Choking, you let the comment sit without response. Since arriving, you'd ignored the reveal of Jango's face, other matters taking clear priority. As you gently raise his upper half, you stop. Chiseled features, handsome scarring, soft dark hair. _Pretty_. Easily worth the price of a new ship.

The tunic underneath you deem loose enough to stay, so you move to free the legs as R4 administers a saline solution. You then lift his feet to rest atop the stacked chest and backplates.

“Bacta spray?”

:Here.:

Taking it from his claw, you apply it first to the stump. Nothing will bring back his flesh-and-blood hand, but the most damage that can be mitigated, the better for his recovery and future prosthetic—should he choose to have one. Given his profession, refusing would necessitate retirement. Well, if he has any sense.

Next, you slowly lift the hem of his top. The wound is a black star just on the inside of his hip. A lucky placement.

“Do you think he'll need the tank?”

:He'll need more than the spray.:

Sighing, and with the assistance of R4's arms, you gently turn Jango onto his side, finding the other half to his injury a finger's width from his spine.

“Can you finish? I need to get us to a med station _now_.”

:Yes. It will be easier without you, in fact.:

Scoffing, but not taking the words to heart, you go to find Boba.

* * *

You're not there when Jango wakes, having left the room to fetch supper for yourself and Boba. It takes longer than it should; a growing part of you suspects it's time you left. R4 has already selected a replacement ship on nearby Naboo, and you've arranged transport there with a patient due for release yesterday. He won't be kept here for long.

_Boba shouldn't be left alone._

_He's not alone. Most the medical staff would happily adopt him if Jango somehow_ does _find a way to die._

It's true; with your gear left on the ship and Jango long ago divested of his armor, you're assumed to be unlucky civilians, Boba's quiet nature thought to be a welcome reprieve after dealing with the other children trapped on station, not the warning sign you'd once worried it could be. And, had it not been for your paranoia, you wouldn't be entertaining such incredibly implausible eventualities. Jango _will_ live.

You just can't be certain of your welcome. Half a conversation and a little life-saving doesn't make you friends.

Age-old abandonment haunts you like an errant ghost. It possesses your body, forcing your legs to continue their march from elevator to shared lodgings, even as your senses detect a third presence, a second human voice. It's unfamiliar, but it bears enough similarity to what you'd heard through Jango's helmet for you to remain calm.

Boba's attention snaps to you as you enter. To his credit, he takes a moment to greet you before making grabby hands for the meal trays you've brought.

“I'm glad you're awake,” you tell Jango, and though that's far from the end of your feelings on the matter, it's not a lie.

Boba hums something like agreement, downing blue milk with laughable desperation. After one final slurp, he complains, “It's been _five days_ , Dad. Do you know how little there is to do here?”

“Oh, I suspect I'll have to learn,” Jango mutters, struggling to ease himself into a sitting position. Without thinking, you move to help him, and if your hands stay curled around his bicep and rib for a few breaths too long, taking comfort in the warmth and strength you find there, well, it's impossible not to harbor fondness for someone you've seen so vulnerable.

His consideration is a physical weight in the air as you back off. Willing it not to be a threat, you stifle the need to _look_ , allowing him his privacy. Already you know an uncomfortable amount, gleaned from your terrible-wonderful intuition and the tidbits Boba'd hesitantly offered, unsure if he should, unsure if it's safe, but needing to talk to _someone_. Someone who would not contact the authorities if he said something wrong, like the doctor, or keep a log of conversations like the medical droids. Strangers you should be, and strangers you're not. The fact it's not entirely your fault this time doesn't diminish the black hole in your chest. You're an invader. You don't belong here.

“Take this—you must be starving for some real food,” you say, giving your tray. “I'm going to find another pillow.”

:I'll get it!:

“Ah, thank you, R4.”

You deflate, but you can't be unhappy with the droid. His own anxieties make being around people who aren't you difficult, and though staying with Boba earlier had been great progress, he's likely due for a break, especially with Jango now returned to the waking galaxy.

“It's not necessary.”

“Too late.”

Boba takes over then, and you let yourself fade into the background. He babbles about what the news and the station's people have said about Geonosis, how you'd taught him how to fall, and the art and science programs R4 downloaded onto his datapad for him. He beams brighter with every soft word, every soft touch of his father's hand to his shoulder, his head, his forearm. Jango praises Boba's drawings for improvements in spatial awareness and color theory. From another parent to another child, you would've called the exchange cold. What you see instead is what Boba had wanted when he'd shown them to you.

R4's return jostles you from the quasi-meditative state.

“Alright, big guy, let's get you resituated.”

Boba snorts.

:Rude,: R4 chirps.

“What are you laughing at? You're going to wind up the same height.”

Boba frowns, his brows furrowing in confusion as though he'd yet to realize that. Which, fair, because:

“Eh, genetics can be weird sometimes. Could be you'll take after your super tall grandmother.”

Boba blinks. Jango makes an odd expression you don't bother identifying. Whatever you're missing, you suppose you owe them a secret.

So, you help Jango into a position more comfortable, and then sit down to eat. Doing so sparks that nervousness back to life; you should be leaving. _You really should be._ There's no more reason to stay. You're bleeding money, loitering here. You're putting yourself and R4 at risk, from Jango and the jedi both. No way they've forgotten the two of you.

Alas, you can't stomach being the one to leave. You never could.

“What payment do you require?”

“None.”

“You don't want a favor? _Information_?”

Shrugging, you allow, “Maybe go easy on my clients if we run into each other out there?”

Jango scowls.

“I don't believe you. You saved my life and stuck around for days despite being uninjured. Why else expend the effort?”

Suddenly unhungry, you set your dinner on the bed behind you.

“It's a lonely galaxy.”

You wear your weakness well, meeting Jango's gaze over an awkward Boba with a polite smile on your face.

The consideration loses its sharp edge.

“Yes,” he sighs. “Yes, it certainly is.”

“Dad?”

“Just reminded of life before you.”

A weakness shared, then.

“You give it all meaning, Boba. All of it,” Jango says, voice worn hoarse and words vague by a surge of raw emotion. Then, quieter, the trauma of this experience spawning as needles in his heart, “I almost left you.”

It's said with such fearful wonder you decide to leave them to their moment, R4 trailing silently behind you.

Or, you try to.

Small arms come around your middle, wrapping you in a loose hug.

“You should be hugging your father.”

The arms tug.

“Come with.”

You haven't the will to argue. It's odd and nonsensical, but you perch on the bed by Jango's hip at Boba's direction and let the boy pull you down on top of him and Jango. It's...

It's nice. R4's claw comes to rest on your back, drawing the tension from your body.

The contact gifts you enough awareness to worry you're taking advantage. They're indebted to you, and they're vulnerable. As doubtful as it may be for brushes with death to be a new thing for Jango, this one feels heavy. Again, you think this must be the first Boba's been present for. Of course it's different.

But Jango is still an adult, an accomplished bounty hunter with connections throughout the galaxy. He has a dependent, and he kills people—it doesn't get more _adult_ than that. Surely, he could tell you to go, or leave himself, anytime. It's not like there's no chance of him benefitting from some extra company while he finishes recovering.

Finally assured, you resolve to stop thinking on it. Let Jango be the one to decide.

* * *

Jango needs a prosthetic. It's functioning within desired parameters by the end of an afternoon, but Jango's bullied into loitering at the station an extra day, in case of complications. The initial plea was for three.

You're not sure why you're present for all this. You stay to soak up the company anyway.

Leaving after last night's collective meltdown had allowed you to process, and today you are reasonably certain you're friends. Embarrassment lingers in the back of your head, but you pay it no mind. Someone had needed to hold Jango's flesh hand when the replacement connected, the grip making your bones creak, a bruise forming fast. Someone needed to distract the doctor from poking at Jango's frayed nerves to the point of something regrettable happening. Someone needs to distract Boba from starting an electrical fire tinkering with the overhead lights.

R4 steps in before you can seize the opportunity to make yourself useful. It's becoming a habit.

The cot beside yours squeaks as Jango clambers out of it.

“Coming?”

“Coming where?”

“Just a walk.”

Watching Jango map out escape routes as you patrol the corridors is a definitive step up from the holonews.

Neither of you speak as you take the first hall.

Then: “I must admit, I looked into you. After we met.”

“Oh?”

“Our encounter on Geonosis intrigued me. It was clear you were someone worth looking into, and my research proved my curiosity worthwhile; you have an impressive track record. Is it really just you?”

“Me and R4,” you answer automatically.

Jango stops in his tracks. Furrowing your brows, you come to a slow, hesitant halt a few spaces ahead, and don't retreat when he closes that distance.

“Sounds lonely.”

“It can be.”

You keep holding your ground as he encroaches on your personal space. You tense, but no instinct to _act_ rises within you.

You trust Jango.

“I can be lonely, too.”

He leans in close, intimate. “Why are you alone?”

“No one would stay. Why are you?”

“Everyone would die.”

Scars of sorrow jump out to you as your lips brush in chaste meeting, immaterial yet more real to the two of you in this moment than the walls surrounding you. It's sweet despite them. It's _hello_ and _it's so nice to meet you_ and _why don't you stay a while_. It's too much, too fast, and nothing all at once: a maybe. An invitation. A _why don't we try_.

You trust Jango: to let you go, to be your friend should this turn out to be a mistake borne of a fragile emotional state and misplaced gratitude. Could be the real you won't match what he's pieced together from the holonet. Could be you are, and this is real—if, yes, sudden and insane—but things fall apart anyway. Could be you're not compatible.

But you're going to try.

You kiss him again.


End file.
